


Lady Sings the Blues

by redibis (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/redibis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snowman ain't feeling too hot and there's only one person who'll really listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady Sings the Blues

Three in the morning. Snowman knocks on the door.

She's never knocked on any door, anywhere, at any point in her life, because Midnight City belongs to her. It's a black pearl in her favorite necklace, a sliver of onyx in a ring she never takes off, a tourmaline bracelet worn for an electric violin recital. It simply belongs to her; yes, Slick might have built it brick by goddamned brick, but his hold on it is slackening even as the seconds drip by. The people are getting restless and the mayor may or may not be contemplating moving back into the desert. This place is too corrupt for anything healthy to live in it.

She knocks on Diamonds Droog's door because she trusts him to be slightly more dangerous than the average resident of the City.

She stands there, rocked back on her heels, until he cracks the door just the slightest bit and peers through. There's a cigarette hanging off his lip and a look in his eye that tells her she's sure as shit the last person he expected.

"The hell do you want," he says.

"Need to talk to you."

He sighs, opens the door, turns on his heel, and walks back inside. No use turing her away. She'd only sit there all night like some kind of statuesque stray cat, yowling up a storm and scratching at the door. It's the same way exactly with Slick; those two are more alike than either of them realizes.

She goes inside and pulls the door shut behind her.

The room is absolutely spotless. It looks as though Droog's just finished cleaning, but he probably hasn't. More likely than not, it just always looks like this. Snowman appreciates it. Her own chambers are flawless.

"The hell," Droog says, "are you doing here."

"Ain't no way to talk to a lady, Mr. Diamonds," Snowman says.

"Excuse the fuck out of you, your highness."

"Better." She lights a cigarette, smirking, and leans against the wall. She knows Droog doesn't mind her smoking because he's doing it himself. It's an old habit of his back from when he was still just a rook with a reputation: he never would do anything around her that he didn't mind her doing around him, not that they met up all that often. She wonders if he still remembers that after all this time or if it's just an echo of something he almost recalls.

Droog grunts and sits down at his desk. Snowman opens her mouth to speak, to ask him about Derse and the army and everything else, then thinks better of it and walks over to the desk and sits on top of it. Her legs are dangling over the edge. She kicks her shoes off and rests her feet on top of the saxophone case on the floor. Droog can't help letting his eyes wander up her toes, her ankles, calves, knees, thighs. She smirks. She's always smirking, always accusing him of something he can't quite place.

He's a man of nearly infinite patience when it comes to her. There's nothing doing in trying to dissuade her from anything; it's best to wait it out and stay calm, stay calm, because she's capable of just as much ultraviolence as he is, and they both know it. The only difference between their tempers is that she could kill him and walk away. "And what do you think you're doing," he says, tranquilly. Of course he isn't upset with her. Just curious.

"I'm having a seat, Diamonds; any damn fool could see that."

"Sweetheart, you know I'm not any damn fool." He blows smoke at her.

"No," Snowman says, half-smiling, watching his smoke mingle with hers. "No, you aren't. That's why I'm here."

"Yeah?"

They fall into an easy banter almost without realizing it. They've done this a hundred times, but it's always been on _her_ territory, when the Crew's had the utter tar kicked out of it and can't quite make its way home. Maybe it's a show of trust that she keeps on talking, or maybe they're both too tired to do anything but irk the shit out of each other the best way they know how.

"The old man is driving me up the wall," Snowman sighs.

"Mind explaining why that's any of my concern?"

"The boys don't exactly hold the best conversations with me, sugar. I got to talk to _somebody_ once in a while or I might just burst, and that'd fuck everybody over."

"Don't you _sugar_ me, you harpy," Droog mutters.

Snowman ignores him. "Matchsticks don't talk about nothing but setting fires, maybe how he'd like to set a fire with me sometime, know what I mean." She rolls her eyes and goes on. "Disgusting. Now, Crowbar's halfway competent and even then I can't halfway stand him. Die is nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Nobody else really bears thinkin' about." She pauses, says more quietly: "I'd talk to Stitch but he don't like keeping his hands to himself."

"Don't he?" Droog says. "News to me."

"He's a goddamned gadabout."

"Ain't you just clocked him one yet? Tell me you smacked him right across his ugly face or somethin'."

"You shitting me? Doc'd have me out on my ear."

Droog shrugs. "Probably you're right."

"No, no, I know I"m right, Diamonds."

"Alright," Droog says. He leans his chair back on its legs. He never does that around the rest of the Crew; with them, he's got to _represent_ something, got to _stand out_ , got to be _different_ from those uncivilized troublemakers. But with her, he can be just another orange. He doesn't have to be so goddamned pretentious because she'd see right through it anyway.

Snowman isn't surprised that he concedes the argument so easily. He might be dangerous, but she's dangerous and gorgeous and he has a weak spot for dames. Even dames that are technically "off-limits" as declared by Slick, a category she's the only member of.

"How about you pour us a drink."

Droog snorts. "How about you get the fuck out."

Snowman purses her lips, says: "Not likely."

"Whiskey or gin."

"Fuck you."

"Coming right up." He scoots the chair back and it makes an ugly rasping noise on the floor. Snowman smirks. She likes noises like that because she's so used to making such perfect music herself.

There's a bottle or three of Jim Beam in the Brawlsoleum; Droog pours two glasses.

He'll be damned if it lets her get drunk on her own.


End file.
